


But we have Bigger Problems Now

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Darkness, Epic, Fallen Angel Castiel, M/M, Original Character(s), POV Dean Winchester, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 10, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the Darkness swallowed up the Impala, and Dean and Sam along with it, not much is left of the world. With monsters running free and humans now officially an endangered species, Dean is thrust into a world with more questions than answers. Where is his brother? How do they fix what they broke? And most importantly, why does Cas seem to be having more personal space issues than usual?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Under Your Spell Again

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born out of a genuine interest in where supernatural left us at the s10 finale in addition to crippling disinterest in where they will probably go with it. This is my interpretation of where I hope they would take it in my perfect little bubble world. 
> 
> This fic is a work in progress with a very large chunk already written. It will update when it updates, hopefully without too much time in between. 
> 
> As always, my tumblr url is destielpasta if you would like to connect with me there. 
> 
> Chapter 1 title take from "Good Enough" by Evanescence. 
> 
> THANK YOU for reading, and future comments are already cherished.

 

_His limbs drag under the weight of his own muscles; seized up like a corpse in atrophy. Sometimes there’s flat ground under his feet, sometimes it turns jagged and rocky and he trips. His hands hit the ground hard, opening up old wounds. He smells blood. That sets him walking again._

_Walking is a chore, but stopping would be hell._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The flimsy hotel door goes BANG against the opposite wall, swinging back around to slam shut and Dean eeks out a “Fuck!” but that doesn’t deter Cas from pushing him back up against it and latching his mouth against Dean’s neck at the pulse point, dragging another unintelligible curse from his mouth.

“You were so stupid back there,” Cas mutters, or something fucking _like_ it because who the hell can understand English when you’ve got a dick pressing into the crease of your hip and your best friend’s hands feel like fire against your neck.

Dean’s hands, in contrast, feel useless, but somehow he gets them around Cas’s head so that he can get his mouth on that mouth again, sucking what he hopes will be a bruise onto his bottom lip before opening them up. He curls his tongue around Cas’s and slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans to pull him closer and--

“Ouch,” Dean says, more out of exasperation than pain, leaning his head back against the door.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is staring at him, all the fire replaced with tenderness and that’s really no better because now his heart is beating like a schoolboy and he’s got fucking _butterflies_ of all things. He wants to kiss Cas, lay him back on the bed and watch while he writhes under him.

But right, oh yeah, there’s blood running down his other arm and they should probably fix that up first.

“Come on,” Cas says, slipping his hand in his and leading him into the bathroom.

He turns on the sink, and the water comes out clean and clear Thank Fuck. At least whatever’s probably floating in it is invisible.

Cas steers him to the toilet, flipping the lid down, and a warm blush starts to creep up behind Dean’s neck. Cas rummages through their bag, seemingly unaware of Dean’s embarrassment,  for some gauze and antiseptic and the battery-powered lantern to light up the dim space. He watches Cas’s hands, calloused and dry, and can only barely remember how they got back here. Ten vamps. Maybe twenty. It’s hard to even tell the difference anymore.

The sweat, the adrenaline, it makes it all so tolerable, and Dean got enough information to make it worthwhile.

Cas’s crouches down, running lukewarm water over the wound and dabbing the excess blood away. He knows it’s not a deep wound, and Cas gets it cleaned up quick before whipping out the tube of Dermabond they had managed to score from a hospital a few towns back.

Dean had to admit, it did feel better than dental floss sutures.

Once his wound is sealed and dry, Cas kisses him again, soft and warm this time and Dean can only feel his heart beating frantically in his chest and he thinks _no_ , pulling his face away so that Cas’s nose bumps into his chin. When he turns back, Cas’s eyes are worried.

“Just,” Dean says, looking up and down and anywhere but Cas’s face, “It’s not a good idea ok?”

Cas nods, his throat working to swallow back what words Dean knew he wanted to stay, and he sets back to securing a bandage over the wound with minimal eye contact. When he stands up, his knees creak in that way that brings Dean right back back down to Earth.

“We should head out tomorrow,” Cas says, sounding like someone who was stuck underwater.

“Yeah,” Dean manages, knowing it was inadequate.

Cas doesn’t honor him with a response. Instead he cleans up, tucking their supplies carefully back into the duffel bag before going back into the bedroom without a word. Dean sits frozen, still on the toilet with a stinging shoulder.

He takes a peek outside through the filthy window to see the beginnings of a fine sunrise, all purple and hazy blue. Who would have thought the end of the world would look so beautiful?

 

 

* * *

 

They sleep in the same bed all the time now. Beds were a luxury that couldn’t be passed up, no matter how weird it gets. Not even because they kissed for some reason. Luckily Cas had already been asleep or at least pretending to be when he left the bathroom the night before. All Dean had to do was check the salt lines and flop back on top of the dirty duvet.

When he wakes up, there’s an empty space beside him, already cool. Cas is up by the window, cuffing and uncuffing and re-cuffing his sleeves.

“We need to get going. There’s something going on down the next block,” he says, not turning around. Cas still makes him feel like he’s always got a million eyes on him, even if his grace is long gone.

“More vamps? Or–”

“Probably vampires.”

He settles for cuffed while Dean grunts his assent, hoisting himself out of bed to get their bags together. There isn’t much; one duffel bag for clothes and one for gear, and a backpack full of water bottles. Something screeches in the distance, but they barely look up. Probably a vamp, they never shut up these days.

Cas grabs whatever he can find in the room-- a half-full jug of clorox and a Gideon bible-- before they break the salt line and burst out in the sun. The van’s only a few feet from the door, but it feels like an eternity. They walk with silent footsteps, something Cas has always been better at but he gets by. He doesn’t breathe until they’re both in and the engine (thankfully) rumbles to life.

Cas throws their bags in the back, pulling out two machetes. He leaves one handle-up for Dean and lays the other in his lap, eyes hard and scanning the area.

“In the alley,” he says, jerking his head to the left. Vamps, at least thirty at first glance, stalk onto the road. They snarl like starving animals, eyes glowing red even in the blinding sun.

Dean swerves to the right, looking for an old interstate sign and spotting the familiar green in the distance. The rubble here isn’t as bad as the last town they had passed through, and he’s able to coax the van into taking them faster. Sweat beads up on his forehead and his wounded arm starts to smart and sting.

“Any more?” Dean asks, trying to weave his way around a crumbling grocery store.

“At least fifty. Must be traveling as a pack.” Cas turns his machete over in his hand.

“Fuck.”

The first thud is just one thankfully, and some swerving manages to throw the vamp enough to get a yowl out of it. He exhales, concentrating back on the road.

“Dean look out!”

Dean doesn’t see it until the vamp’s got a hand through the window and sharp, black nails digging into his shoulder. He jerks free, flattening himself against the seat while Cas reaches with his machete to tag it in the neck. He falls back with a hiss, enough for Dean to unlatch his hand from the doorframe. He hits the pavement with a thud and a scream when the wheel meets his head.

One down.

“Any more close?”

“No,” Cas answers, something else hanging in the air.

“What…” Dean says, knowing what’s coming.

Cas pauses, but he always says it the same way, with the same goddamn inevitability. “I think there were some people back there.”

“Cursed?”

“They didn’t look it.”

Dean slams on the brakes, u-turning back toward the chaos. “Dammit.”

“We can’t just--”

“Leave them,” Dean finishes for him, “I’m aware, Cas.”

Sometimes Dean wonders if he’s all human these days, if he could ever really be finished with the wildness the mark had instilled in him, because he swears he can smell pure humans among all this… mess. They’re huddled by an old bank tower, it still reading a scrambled and inaccurate temperature. They’re slight, even for people on the End of World the Diet; just a couple of kids.

Surrounding them are about twenty vampires, all in ragged clothing and snarling at the sight of their next meal. The nests were huge now, and getting more powerful by the day.

Dean makes eye contact with Cas, shrugging before getting out of the car. He follows.

“Hey!” Dean calls, his voice parched but carrying, “We got something for you. Right here.”

The vamps turn, their faces contorted with hunger and, not for the first time, Dean realizes that they’re starving too-- this wasteland can’t feed anything.

But old habits die hard.

They stalk toward them, some cradling amputated limbs but otherwise uninjured. The two kids run onto another side street, momentarily forgotten.

“Come on,” Dean goads, and Cas moves to stand beside him, their shoulders almost touching, “You can bet we’re gonna be tasty. Chock full’a blood and not even the nasty cursed kind. Even got a fresh wound for you.”

“It’s a Winchester,” one of them all but spits, a woman in a tattered flannel shirt, blood crusted to the corners of her mouth. “You’ll taste like _heaven_.”

“That one even _smells_ like heaven,” another one shouts, pointing at Cas, “Tell me, Angel, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

Cas tenses by his side.

“So you’re all here on our charity then?” Dean says, “You should be thanking us.”

Shrieking laughter fills the parched air; they throw back their heads, baring fangs they hardly ever bother retracting anymore.

“Thanking you?” the first woman scoffs, resting her filthy hands on her hip, “Word on the street is that you’re the one who needs _us_.”

Dean swallows hard. The kids can't have made it that far, if they hop back into the van now they could probably pick them up on their way out--

“Betcha wanna know where that brother of yours is, dontcha?”

He grips the handle of his knife tightly, sweat making his grip unsure.

“Dean,” Cas mutters beside him, always calm, always reassuring.

Dean clears his throat.

“Sam Winchester is dead,” he calls, “You have nothing we need, Count Chocula.”

The crowd erupts, surging toward them like a herd, and Dean barely has time to shove Cas towards the passenger side before booking it to the driver’s seat, shoving the key back into the ignition and slamming his door onto a vamp’s hand.

They grab hold but Cas cuts them down with swift thrusts of his blade, and soon enough they’re on a clear stretch of road, and pushing 80.

 

* * *

 

 

The end of the world had been quick, and, like most things, their fucking fault. Too much going on at once, Dean had said later. Too many goals, too many demands on the laws of nature. Death had disappeared with a swipe of that rusted scythe, and as if that hadn’t been a problem enough, the spell had worked, swiping the Mark of Cain from his arm and unlocking cosmic do-all-fuckery in the process.

When the Darkness rolled over the Impala, Dean had felt like he was sucked into a void. It was quiet, peaceful even. He moved like a ghost through the Earth, alone but not lonely, smoothly cutting through everything in his way as if it were butter.

That is, until he found himself rabid and foaming at the mouth, tied to a chair in godforsaken Wyoming of all places--

Probably better not to think about that right now.

When he came out of the haze created by the Darkness, the Earth had been broken.

Cas had explained it, voice broken and barely able to lift a finger. First came the Earthquakes. Small ones in sleepy New York towns that had never felt the earth shake beneath their feet. Big ones in the usual places like California that turned entire skyscrapers to dust; splitting roads in half and barfing up craggy mountains in the middle of Hollywood boulevard.

The Darkness rolled through the destruction, taking survivors and turning them into rabid animals, twisting everything they were had been into nothingness.

Entire cities imploded on themselves. It was a sickness that rivaled the Croatoan virus, except these victims were likened to ready-made demons–  sadistic and catering to the worst of themselves. They drove through cities with nothing but dead bodies hanging out of windows and littering the streets, taken by their own rage. Humans were an endangered species.

Then the monsters came.

Not just nests of vamps and the occasional neighborhood werewolf; they came in _droves._ Vampires organized and took over like plagues of locusts. They had never seen more than one Rugaru at once but now there were herds of them that hunted humans like cattle. Any type of creepy crawly they had once been able to kill came at them in packs larger than they could hunt.

The sun beats down harder now. You’re hard pressed to find a road that isn’t split in half by some new mountain range formed by the earthquakes these days. The world had been overpopulated, and now Dean mourns the two scared kids that were probably dead now. From monsters or overexposure, take your pick.

And then, just when you thought you had enough to deal with, the Darkness would make the Earth tremble again.

 

 

* * *

 

Of course trying to drive post-apocalypse isn't easy, _even_ with a clear head, but now Dean’s got Cas poking at a cut on his forehead with gentle fingers and _what the hell._

"Come on man," he mutters, too tired to put up a real fight, "It’s already scabbed over. It's not even bleeding anymore."

"Yes," Cas says, not stopping even for a second. "Let's just succumb to infection and abandon all hope."

"Drama queen," Dean says under his breath, surrendering to the ministrations. Without even stopping the car Cas has swabbed rubbing alcohol over the wound and applied two butterfly bandages with fingers than never shake.

"There," he says, sitting back in his seat and putting the supplies back in his medic bag, "I should use more, but we're running low."

"I'll never meet a husband now."

Cas rolls his eyes, offering what settles for a laugh these days. "I'm pretty sure your days of marriage eligibility are over."

"You calling me old?"

"Yes."

Dean shrugs. "Can't argue with the facts."

Sweat beads up on his brow, but with the new renovations to the window (courtesy of vamp #3) at least they're getting a breeze.

"Hey," he says, turning to Cas and examining his face, "They get you?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. They always seem to go for you first.”

“Must be my sparkling personality.”

Cas turns to look out the window, resting his head on his hands “Do you think those kids got away?”

Dean sighs. “Probably not. They’d be on the road if they did.”

Silence settles over them for a moment, punctuated from rustling and screams that come from the trees flanking the road. They’re used to it by now. Monsters that don’t have to hide _love_ to scream. At least the monsters scream, the most terrifying things are quiet.

Cas starts fidgeting about twenty minutes in, and Dean sighs and braces himself for impact.

“Dean–  we should talk–”

“Not for all the tea in China.”

“Why are you being so stubborn?”

“We just fought off like forty vamps and you wanna talk about that?”

"When aren't we fighting off forty vamps, Dean?"

Dean huffs in response, feeling like a toddler stomping his foot. “Just gimme a minute, ok? Let my goddamn cut scab over.”

Cas shakes his head, looking out the window. “You said it already did.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He hits the gas trying to coax the van into higher speeds before they have to find shelter for the night.

 

 

* * *

 

_Clink. Clink. Clink._

Dean wakes with a start. Moonlight filters into the van and he can make out Cas sitting watch on the hood, his machete and shotgun laying across his lap.  He looks down at his arm, the skin smooth and completely healed, but constantly aching.

He sighs, trying to blow out steam. The noise had just been a part of a dream, a frequently recurring dream, but just a dream nonetheless. Nothing around him could have made the noise without Cas noticing, his outline still and calm in front of him, leaning against the hood of the van. His heart begins to calm.

He makes a mental to-do list. They had found a calm spot to rest for the night, and now it was time to take the watch so that Cas could sleep.

He grabs his own gear and drops down onto the pavement, and Cas turns around to look at him, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Even the moon is brighter now, and the pale light makes Cas glow in a way Dean can’t describe without sounding like a total jackass.

“Go get some sleep,” Dean says, hopping up to sit on the hood beside him.

Cas nods, but doesn’t move. He picks at a hangnail on his thumb and stares up at the moon.

“What–” Cas starts, stuttering and sighing before continuing, “What do you think happened to them?”

Dean doesn’t have to ask who, not with Cas’s eyes turned heavenward and that dreamy look in his eye.

“Hannah was so good. She fixed heaven, or at least Metatron said that she did,” he says, voice throaty and thick.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Hannah probably is doing a bang up job. Running _heaven_. Since when did the angels interfering with Earth have a good outcome?”

Cas laughs, more of an exhale but still _there_. “Never. You’re probably right.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out two pills and throwing them back dry. Dean knows they’re only tylenol or ibuprofen–  who the hell doesn’t have an ache or pain lately? –  but the sight sends jolt of nerves through him.

Cas picks at a loose thread on Dean’s coat, casually invading his space like he’s so comfortable doing lately. He might as well have his lips on his neck again for the way it makes Dean’s heart set to beating.

“You should go to sleep,” Dean repeats, hating how his voice cracks on the upswing.

“Mhm,” Cas says, not even making an attempt to move and now brushing his fingers against the skin of Dean’s hand, moving to almost lace their fingers together.

“Cas–” he starts, but is interrupted by a rustling in the trees. They both perk up, Cas aiming his shotgun towards the forest.

“Who’s there?” Cas growls.

Nothing. They sit still for a moment, listening for any more movement.

“Animal?” Dean whispers.

Cas shakes his head. He gets up, keeping the shotgun close to his side. He motions for Dean to follow him.

They stalk towards the back of the van just in time to hear the back hatch door slam, something breaking into a run. Dean sees a red shirt on a thin body, lunging to grab at it before they can get away.

“Let me go!” she screams, obviously was taught right, “I have a gun!”

“I’m sure you do, but as you can see, so do we,” Dean says, moving the girl to sit her down on the bumper. Despite his words, he lowers his knife and motions for Cas to do the same. “And unless you want every monster in the vicinity to hear you should keep your voice down.”

She keeps her face low, her intricately braided hair falling in front of her face, but her dark eyes are sharp on them. She can’t be more than sixteen underneath the layer of dirt on her face. She’s clutching something and holding it behind her–  Cas’s medical bag.

“Are you hurt?” Cas asks, face softening.

She doesn’t respond at first, just stares a hole through them.

“We can help you,” he continues, setting the gun on the ground and showing her his open hands.

Dean groans internally. Cas always trusts too fast these days.

Thankfully, the teen doesn’t whip out a gun, but her face stays hard. “Why should I trust you? Two old guys out in the middle of the woods?”

“Old?” Dean can’t help but scoff.

“It doesn’t look good, I know, and you’re smart not to trust us.” Cas says, shooting him an impatient look, “But we’re human, and we have supplies. We can help you.”

Her expression remains controlled, but worry lines start digging into her forehead. Kid’s obviously seen a few things. “Those freaks looked like humans too.”

“Have you even seen one of the Cursed? They would not be sitting here chatting with you. Look,” Dean says, “I get it. I really do. And there’s nothing we can do to make you trust us, really, as humans. But would vamps carry around shotguns? Trust me, they don’t need them.”

She swallows hard, and Dean doesn’t miss the way her eyes keep flicking back to the forest.

“You’re free to go,” he continues, gesturing towards the woods. “But if you need help, or if someone out there needs help, you should let us do it.”

She seems to chew it over for a minute, before her shoulders seem to collapse in on her slight form.

“June?” she calls, looking out into the forest, “June you can come out!”

There’s some hesitation, then rustling, before another kid comes out of the brush, significantly younger than the one sitting on his bumper. Her hair is braided in a similar way, but matted down by blooded crusted to the side of her face. She eyes them suspiciously, before running over to who Dean figures is her sister.

She grabs her hand and pulls her close. “Something attacked us in the forest. Got spooked and ran off but snagged her face.”

Cas comes forward, easing his bag out of her grip. “May I?”  

The first girl nods, not letting go of June’s hand. Cas crouches down, rummaging through his pack for the usual suspects: disinfectant, bandages, dermabond. He flushes the wound out with a bottle of water, cleaning the dry blood from the side of the little girl’s face.

“Stopped bleeding. That’s good. Looks like just one claw laceration. Not a Werewolf bite. Also good.” He smiles warmly, “June right?”

She nods.

“June I’m going to put some stuff on you cut that will make it feel better, but it will sting at first. Is this your sister?” Cas asks, gesturing to the older girl, June nods, “Just squeeze her hand when it hurts, ok?"

June nods, and her sister purses her lips while Cas dabs the rubbing alcohol to the small cut. Dean walks away when her face starts to tense up, walking to the front seat to grab a couple more bottles of water. He hands one to the older girl when he walks back. She takes it, eyeing it suspiciously.

“It’s just water. Honestly stolen from an abandoned grocery store in Yonkers,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice light.

“Fuck Yonkers,” she mutters before taking a sip, then throwing back the whole thing. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve when she finishes.

“Got a name?” he asks.

“Tish.”

“Short for anything?”

“Nope.”

Dean nods, feeling awkward. “Well I’m Dean, and that’s Cas.”

“Short for anything?”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “You two the kids from the town a ways back? With the vampires?”

Tish shrugs, rubbing some water on her face, revealing dark brown skin underneath the dirt. “Yeah. Been hiding out there a while, before it got overrun. Left a good haul behind too.”

Dean shakes his head, “That’s a shame.” He looks over at Cas. “How’s it going over there, Doc?”

Cas doesn’t break concentration, holding the edges of June’s wound together. “Almost done.”

“What’s that stuff you put on her face?” Tish asks.

“Skin glue,” Cas answers, letting go and smoothing a bandage over the wound. “It’ll fall out when the wound is healed. We just need to make she doesn’t pick at it.

“You hear that?” Tish says, looking at June sternly, “Don’t touch it if you want to get better.”

June nods, and Dean realizes that she hasn’t said a word so far. Reminds him of another traumatized kid from his past.

“Let’s get you guys something to eat.”

They scarf down two protein bars each, their eyes perking up from a few hundred calories at least. Cas layers a few blankets on the floor in the back of the van with a pillow.

“You should sleep. We’ll keep watch.”

Tish nods, steering June back into the van and arranging her in the blankets, careful to arrange herself so as to not hit her wound. Dean makes eye contact with her, and knows that there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she’ll actually sleep tonight.

They close the doors, and Cas beckons for Dean to follow him back to the front of the van.

“She really ok?” Dean asks, keeping his voice low.

“Yes.” Cas answers, leaning back and letting his eyes fall closed for a moment. “We caught it pretty early and she should be safe from infection.” He sighs, barely stifling an incoming yawn.

“Go sleep, man. I got this,” Dean says, nudging Cas with his shoulder.

Cas yawns in earnest, mouth stretched wide. He lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You sure?”

“Yes. Go.” Dean says sternly, reminding himself of Tish being stern with her sister.

“I suppose some sleep will do me good.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean says, nudging him again.

Cas rolls his eyes, shouldering his shotgun like a soldier. “If you wanted to be rid of me, all you had to do was ask,” he calls as he walks back to the passenger side.

Dean scoffs, shaking his head to himself. “Goodnight, Cas.”

He crosses his arms, his machete pointing at the ground. Cas would fall asleep quick, he always did. Must be rough catching up on a millennium's worth of beauty sleep. Still, he waits the appropriate amount of time before he turns and looks back at Cas, his face leaning against the window, obviously asleep.

It’s only then that he pulls out the slip of paper that had been burning a hole in his pocket, well-worth the gash on his arm. He reads the few words scrawled out in messy monster handwriting, but it’s enough to warm him even in the evening chill.

 

_Dakota Horizons–  Sioux Falls._

 


	2. My Heart has Lost its Wind Now

 

_Time slips by like nothing, he could have been walking for two hundred years or for two minutes, he doesn't know. He only knows when something hits him, and he hits back._

 

* * *

 

 

“Pick a tape, Tish!”

Dean knows his voice sounds fake, like a fucking pre-school teacher even, but another mile of Tish and June staring at him, barely blinking, could very well be enough to set him over the edge. He kicks the cardboard box full of tapes towards Tish’s seat, giving her a winning smile in the rearview mirror. Cas chuckles from the passenger seat.

“Anything! See if there’s something you know in there.”

Tish stares at his reflection, and for a moment Dean think she’s gonna tell him to go fuck himself. Surprisingly, she reaches down, slowly looking through the box; the only real thing left from the Impala he could save.

That had been one of the worst things, if he was being honest: Finding her still stuck in the mud outside of the Mexican restaurant on the border. A fate he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy even.

Sure, they had gotten her out, Dean had even gotten her back in working order, but sooner rather than later they had to ditch her, leave her in some godforsaken Agway parking lot in Wisconsin. Gas pumps had dried up in some kind of mad attempt at ‘evacuation,’ and the van could run on vegetable oil. No brainer.

Still stings though.

“This one,” Tish says finally, stringing together more words than she had in the last twelve hours.

“Alright, what do we got?” She hands him a tape. _Who’s next?_ 1971\. “The Who, eh?”

“I had a friend who liked them,” she says, no more explanation needed.

He slides the tape into the deck. It’s not one he listens to a lot, never really got too much into The Who himself, but he notices right away when Cas starts to bob his head to the crazy drum beats.

He smirks to himself. “Good choice. You pick next June!”

He can’t help but feel like a winner when the little girl’s face lights up with the first smile he’s seen out of her.

They sit quiet for a while, enjoying the music and the implication that Keith Moon was probably destroying his drum, before hitting a snag.

They come upon them a lot– National Guard. They’d roll around in their tanks, some looking to help, others looking for trouble. Two guys in a truck full of ammo, usually they were smart enough to leave them alone. Kids, families, girls lost on the road– they weren’t so lucky. Trust humanity; some of the last to survive were absolute dirtbags.

The road block is good, Dean’s gotta give them that. Making use of the topography change, in this case a low but jagged plateau, and then flanking it with tanks, really top-notch. They sit around it with their legs hanging over, looking cocky and like they have nothing better to do than cause trouble.

Cas turns around to Tish and June before they get too close. “Crouch down, don’t let them see you for as long as you can.”

Tish gets June underneath the seat and herself underneath a blanket as Dean rolls up to the first one, a soldier in a wife beater shouldering a semi-automatic.

“Hey folks!” he calls, smiling like a wolf.

Dean rolls down his window. “Is there a problem, Sir?”

“Well lookie here,” he says, stooping down, toothpick dangling dangerously from his mouth. He’s got the ruddy look of a White guy who spends too much time in the sun and thinks it makes him look better. “What you two fellas doing? Out for a Sunday drive?”

“Nope,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice level, “Just surviving the end of the world.”

Dean watches Cas out of the corner of his eye, counting how many guards flank the car.

“You don’t have to struggle so much, boys!” Meatface says, throwing his hands up and waving his gun around stupidly in the process. “We got everything you need, right here in our little abode.”

“Huh,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck, “Thank you– really, much obliged– but we’re good. If you could just let us through–”

Soldier Meatface starts to laugh, throwing his head back and making a real show of it. “Jee man I’d love to– but you see, you’re in direct violation of federal law.”

“That so?” Dean says, lowering his hand to the holster in the side pocket of the door.

“Yep, not my rules. See all this?” He gestures to their van, “All this belongs to Uncle Sam now. State of Emergency and all that. So I gotta ask you and your boy here to step out of the van and follow me, so we can get you guys some help. These are desperate times and my conscious just can’t allow you to go off alone.”

“I realize you’ve probably got several toothpicks stuck in your brain, so let me be clear. Let us go, or this gets ugly.”

“Dean,” Cas warns.

More soldiers gather around their car, flanking both sides and training their semi-automatics on them. Dean tightens his grip on his gun, looking at Cas. His face hard, and he shakes his head twice. If they were alone, they would fight. But they’re not.

Dean sighs, letting go of the gun and putting his hands up.

Soldier Meatface’s face breaks out into some approximation of a smile. “That’s it, my friend! So glad we’re gonna be able to help you out today!”

Hands pry open their doors, and Dean hears the exclamations from the back as they find June and Tish.   
  
“Look here boss! Couple a kids back here too!”

“Get off me–”

“Well good thing too! Can’t have a couple of hungry kids on the road!”

“You touch them, you die,” Dean says as they yank him out, patting him down and confiscating the knife at his side and in his boot.

“We’re just gonna put them with youngsters their age, don’t you worry.” He smiles again, and Dean resists putting a fist between his teeth. Another guard takes hold of his arm, leading them into the forest.

They’d heard of the National Guard camps, stripping people of their belongings and then selling them back for labor in exchange for some kind of protection. White collar crime, even after the apocalypse. This one seemed to be in the business of taking people right off the only serviceable road.

They walk through a half-mile of trees, guns trained on their backs. Cas’s got his medical bag on his shoulder; Dean wonders how long they’ll let him keep that. He glances at Tish, and she’s got a death grip on June’s hand again. Dean feels a pang of guilt, maybe he should have told them just to keep running rather than get mixed up in their bad luck.

They reach a clearing a few minutes later, the trees thinning out into an open field. Dark green tents made of thick army-grade canvas dot the landscape, each with their own blue tarp pitched over them for rain. People mill around, hauling wood and stone from the immediate forest to a tent at the center. Dean notices that they’re all filthy, their eyes trained low when they pass by them.

“Take them to the kids tent,” one soldier says gesturing to Tish and June and the soldier flanking them.

“Give us a second,” Dean says, “They’re my brother’s kids, I promised to look after them.”

“Your brother?” Meatface says, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah my brother, what are you, a racist?”

He gets in Dean’s face, spit shining at the corners of his mouth. “Watch that lip, unless you want me to dot your eye.”

Dean just stares, keeping his mouth a hard line.

“You got two minutes.”

Cas immediately goes to June, checking underneath her bandage and replacing it with a new one he pulls from his bag . “Remember what I said? About the glue?”

“Don’t pick at it,” she whispers, nodding.

“Good.”

Dean turns to Tish, meeting her eyes. “Listen, look out for your sister,” he whispers, she rolls her eyes, as if he needs to tell her that. He lowers his voice. “Take as little as possible, don’t owe anyone anything. We’re gonna get you guys out of here. But don’t tell anyone else that.”

“You better,” she says, eyes hard.

Dean looks at Cas, gives him a nod when he’s done fixing June’s bandage. He looks at the soldiers. “Alright, let’s go.”

They lead Tish and June away before beckoning for Dean and Cas to follow them to a non-descript tent and the edge of the camp.

“Home sweet home, boys. Tent 4A. It’ll feel good to have solid ground under you again,” Meatface says, “The day’s almost over, but we’ll expect you up bright and early tomorrow for work.”

“What kind of work?” Cas asks, eyes narrow.

He pauses, looking downright sheepish if Dean hadn’t known better. “We’re working on making permanent housing.”

“I’m a doctor,” Cas says quickly, hand on his bag, “I think I could be useful doing that. You must have sick people?”

Meatface looks torn for a moment, glancing down at Cas’s bag and back up to his face. “That we do.”

“I could help,” Cas says again.

Dean wishes he had a nickel for every time Cas said that.

After another moment, Meatface nods and grabs Cas’s arm. “You can get started right now then.”

Cas pulls away, but holds his ground. “Just show me where.”

“Jenkins! Take the Doc to the medic tent.”

Another soldier starts walking away, obviously intending for Cas to follow him. Dean catches his eye, giving him a smirk. “See ya soon.”

Cas nods, following after the soldier at a jog.

That leaves Dean alone with Meatface. “You missed dinner– “

“It’s ok I ate before I got here.”

“-- but breakfast is at dawn. The first open bunk you see is yours.” He gives Dean a murderous look. “And if I hear about you causing trouble–”

“I get it, boss,” Dean says, already halfway in the tent.

“Hey!” He grabs Dean’s arm, nails digging painfully into his scar, catching him off guard, “I mean it. We got guards flanking the perimeter. Nothing in or out. President’s orders.”

“I’m sure.” Dean shakes his arm off. “Can I go to sleep now, buddy? It’s been a hell of a couple of days.”

“You’ll call me Sergeant Ballister, and nothing else,” he growls, spit flying from his mouth, “You got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” He grimaces, spitting at Dean’s feet.

Dean rolls his eyes as soon as the Sergeant is out of site, ducking into the dimness of the tent.

The tent is overcrowded, stiflingly hot, and eerily quiet. He walks through the aisle of cots and bunk beds, feeling eyes on him even as he keeps his forward. At least they have the common sense to separate men from women, and it looks like everyone had just gotten in from a work day.

Dean sets to finding an open cot, scanning around the periphery of the tent. Hollow eyes glance up at him, but no one really stares for long. When monsters start flooding the world in droves and your friends are suddenly soulless monsters it probably takes a few notches off of your self-confidence.

Dean wouldn’t know.

He finds one just as the sun is sinking and the shadows in the tent are getting longer. It’s one of the real old fashioned army types, just burlap stretched over a tripod-like stand. He sits on it gingerly, eyeing up his surroundings.

There’s someone bundled under a space blanket in the bed to his left, already asleep, and to the right is a twenty-something looking punk that looks like he’s close to tears. Dean’s glad he’s near him instead of someone who could beat the shit out of him.

He only lies back when he notices the rest of the tent settling in. He’s got planning to do, but sleep comes first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s no bugle horn to wake them up, but Dean would have preferred it to the yelling and carrying on that surged through the tent before the sun had barely peeked over the horizon.

The sounds of men bitching and moaning fill the air, punctuated by the smell of humans who obviously don’t get the chance to bathe that much. Dean sits up, feeling a crick forming in his neck from a night sleeping in the van followed by the night on the cot.

“Hey,” he hears to his side.

It’s the kid from the day before, his eyes dry now but still red-rimmed. His blond hair sticks up in all directions and his face and neck are covered in dirty sweat, but he holds something out to Dean with outstretched hands: a pair of jeans and a toothbrush, still in the package with a small tube of toothpaste.

“Snagged them from the surplus tent a few days ago. You look about the same size as me.”

Dean squints at the offering, wondering if it’s worth it to owe this kid something. He looks innocent enough, but Dean could pull that act once, when he only had twenty years behind him.

He takes it after a beat, deciding that having a clean mouth trumps a lot of risks he figures he’s taking. And the pants do look like they’d fit.

“Thanks kid. What’s your name?”

“Christian. Chris. Whatever, really. You?” He scratches the back of his head, looking away.

“Dean,” he answers, “Show me the ropes today?”

“Sure.” He shrugs.

Dean stows the pants and toothbrush (after a beautiful experience with it) in a pouch underneath his cot, realizing full well that it might not be there when he gets back.

He stumbles outside with the rest of the men. It’s a hazy Autumn morning, summer still clinging to the air in a world that desperately needs a cool breeze. His shirt already feels grungy, like it could up and walk away by itself.

Guards line them up, poking and prodding where they need to, but nothing too extreme. He’s handed a protein bar and a bottle of water along with some kind of makeshift, garbage bag sling by a dead-eyed soldier, and heaves it around his shoulder like he sees the others doing.

He’s in line behind Christian when they start moving, joining up with another line from the other men’s tent and the two groups from what he guesses are the woman’s tent. Everyone’s eating their breakfast holding onto a similar sling, some make of burlap, others of doubled-up garbage bags.

“You’re lucky,” Christian says in front of him, “Garbage bags means wood. I got stone.” He says, holding up his burlap sack.

Hauling. Dean should have realized.

It takes a moment for him to realize that they’re headed towards the edge of the forest, soldiers splitting off the two groups based on the type of sling, like Christian had said. He’s herded into the wood line, keeping an eye on Christian as he moved in the other direction.

“Hey,” he says to a soldier, a woman with a bandana over her hair instead of a helmet, “Why are you letting civilians into the forest? It ain’t even safe in there for people with guns.”

“I ask myself the same thing every day.” She shakes her head, looking around, “Keep it moving.”

They make it into the forest without much ado, soldiers calling out to pick up branches at least three inches wide. People stoop and look and collect but Dean just stands there, feeling dumbfounded.

You can’t build any kind of permanent dwelling with sticks, and yet all the people are stooped down shoving them into their slings as if it will make a lick of difference.

“Hey you!”

“Oh great,” Dean says under his breath, turning around.

Ballister struts through the landscape like he’s got a stick up his ass, but at least he has the sense to keep his weapon lowered in the thick of all the people.

“Think you can get away with not working? Better than all these people?” He raises his voice on the last phrase.

“Listen man,” Dean starts, keeping his voice neutral and low, eyeing the gun in Ballister’s sweaty fist.

“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve already been hearing your name around. Dean right?”

“Winchester,” Dean says, “Might as well get the last name too.”

Ballister grunts, taking out a small notepad and jotting something down.

“Listen,” Dean starts, trying to sound sincere, “You’ve got to know that this isn’t any kind of work that’s going to lead to permanent housing. Collecting sticks?”

Ballister flips his notepad closed, licking his chapped lips. “What did you say?”

Dean holds up his hands. “There’s gotta be a better way– you’re lying to all these people–”

He cuts off, feeling the tremor as soon as it rumbles underneath their feet, there and gone in a flash. The people around him freeze, someone screams farther away. A bead of sweat runs down Ballister’s face as if in comically timed slow motion.

And then… nothing.

The soldiers straighten up after a few seconds. “Back to work everyone! False alarm!” the soldier from the line calls out.

Dean feels frozen to the spot, feet heavy and glued to the ground.

“Get to work,” Ballister growls at him, swinging around and stalking away.

Dean looks around, and everyone is already back to work, measuring stick width with the circles of their thumb and forefinger. He stoops down, picking one up and then another to blend in, barely noticing Tish until she stoops down next to him.

“Jesus!” he starts, “Gonna start calling you Cas.”

She blinks. “I don’t know you well enough to get that.”

He shakes his head. “Alright alright. How’s it going? Where’s your sister?”

“She’s too young to work. She’s with the other little kids. They’ve got mother-types looking after them. She seems ok.”

Dean nods. “No one believes you when you tell them you’re all she’s got left in the world, right?”

“What?”

“You try to tell them, that you’re her parent now, all she’s got.” Dean says, picking up a few more sticks, “But they just want to take her away and tell you that they’ve got it under control now. Like they’re doing you a favor.”

Tish swallows, shoving a few sticks into her sling without looking at them. “Right.”

“Even in the damn apocalypse.” They gather in silence for a few moments.

“You got a plan yet?” She asks, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Easy. We’re getting there.” He lowers his voice. “I’m gonna talk to Cas tonight and get info from the med tent. But…”

“What?” she asks, anger shadowing her voice.

“They’re feeding you. You’ve got a bed. You sure you don’t want to stay here?”

“I’m not stupid,” She says, eyes boring holes into his. “I know their guns are useless against the freaks out there. And we’re better off moving– you never know when the– the–” she stammers, cutting off and looking away.

“The Darkness will come back,” he finishes for her.

“Yup,” she says, clearing her throat and going back to work.

Dean doesn’t pry more, obviously the kid’s got a story and she’ll do show and tell if she wants to.

They continue working in silence, and judging by the sun’s position it’s not until noon that someone starts passing around a few canteens. Lunch consists of a mish-mash of half-heated MRE’s and canned beans. His backs aches and there’s sweat coating the back of his neck, but he thanks whatever lucky stars still out there that it’s Fall in upstate New York and not Summer down south.

It isn’t until the sun is almost eye level that the soldiers start yelling for them to fall back into some kind of line, the bulky slings full of sticks making it difficult not to jab someone in the eye. They march back to the camp in some kind of formation, the soldiers leading them to large mounds of materials near the edge of camp.

Rocks for foundations, wood for walls, indeed.

He waits for what feels like hours while everyone empties their slings, handing them back to waiting soldiers. When Deana and Tish get to the front of the line, they refuse to meet his eyes, taking his sling and pointing him back to his tent.

Tish follows him, grabbing his coat sleeve to turn him.

“Something’s not right.”

“You think?” he says, regretting his sarcasm when he sees her face tense.

“Why doesn’t anyone talk? Even when they were working they were silent!”

Her voices echoes a bit, and a silence falls over the already hushed camp. Eyes lock on them, hungry and exhausted, but with fire. He doesn’t like it.

Dean reaches out, landing a hand on Tish’s shoulder. “Get back to your tent. Stay there.”

She looks like she wants to protest, but instead shrugs his hand off and stalks back toward her tent. One-by-one, people turn away. Some people head for a mess tent to get dinner, but he doesn’t feel all that hungry all the sudden. He follows more men heading back to Tent 4A, a pit forming in his stomach on the way.

 

* * *

 

“Dean! Wake up!”

The whisper is harsh and damp by his ear, and he tries to swat it away like a mosquito.

“Trynta sleep Sammy–” he grumbles, realizing too late that Sam is dead and he’s not in a dusty old motel watching the sun come up, but in a dark National Guard camp in the middle of the night.

And Cas is poking at his arm.

“Dude, warn a guy!”

“I did,” Cas says, looking up at him through his eyelashes while he works to (apparently) check Dean’s wound from the other day. “If you would follow me this wouldn’t be nearly as difficult.

Dean rolls his eyes, throwing his legs over the side of his cot to a seated position. Cas beckons to him, disappearing through a crack in the tent flap. Dean looks around, but sees no movement from the guards flanking the entrances. He stays low and slips out in the same way.

Cas is waiting for him in the shadow of the tent, immediately taking Dean by the good arm and steering him toward a patch of moonlight. He removes the old bandage, examining the laceration on his upper arm; he runs a finger over the seam of the glue, probably checking for dryness or cracks.

Dean shivers.

“You better keep your hands to yourself, somehow I think don’t-ask-don’t-tell didn’t get repealed here,” he jokes.

Cas finishes his scrutinizing and fastens a new bandage over the wound. “I’m a doctor, remember?”

Dean swears he catches a hint of mischief in his eyes. “And where did you study, Doc?”

“That depends,” Cas says, smirk replaced with genuine concern, “What would be the most impressive?”

“Just always go with Harvard. Can’t go wrong.”

“Noted.”

A moment passes; they watch as a pair of guards talk by the edge of the forest, obviously distracted and far from their actual posts. Shitty work.

“Any info from the med tent?” Dean asks.

Cas sighs, sinking down to sit on the ground, pulling Dean down with him.

“If my guess is correct, this particular camp has no contact with whatever might be left of the government. They have limited supplies, and no doctors. Just a few who say they were nurses before. And they’re dealing with a large number of wounded people from the monsters running around. Infection and Malaria from the mosquitos." He rubs the back of his neck. “No vampires though!” He brightens up, the falseness apparent in his voice when he deflates.

“I’m sure you’re doing all you can do.”

He hadn’t really thought to question Cas’s healing habit that had formed ever since he was human again, thinking it to be a pretty natural progression from being a celestial being that could heal with a thought. Patching up Dean’s cuts and whoever they met on the road is one thing though, and Dean’s still uncomfortable enough watching Cas down a tylenol to want him to endure any mental suffering.

He changes the subject. “Hear any word? What’s the end game here?”

Cas shakes his head, shrugging. “Everyone is quiet, keeping to themselves. My guess is good collection. They find people, strip them of whatever they have, and then have them work in exchange for food and protection. The nurses wouldn’t say much more. They didn’t talk much at all.”

Dean recalls Tish’s frightened outburst. “Yeah that seems to be the MO here.”

“They’ve been here for three months, if my guess is correct,” Cas continues, “The nurses say there have been four Werewolf attacks on the camp.”

“And of course Colonel Klink doesn’t know what needs to be done to protect these people.”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not with this. And I don’t think his character was much better before this."

Dean pauses for a moment, watching the few guards at the forest edge exchange pleasantries.

“When are we gonna bust out, Cas?”

Cas purses his lips. He isn’t stupid, he has to knows that getting out here isn’t gonna be rocket science, but they would never keep it that simple.

“We can’t leave–”

Dean cuts him off. “I know. We’ll figure it out. Can’t be too hard to bust a couple kids out of a poorly run post-apocalyptic military camp.”

“True,” Cas says, “But what do we do when we do? Us on the road… it’s fine. But two kids?”

Dean shrugs. “Seems like a no brainer to me. At least we know what to do when vamps attack. They’d be like sitting ducks here,” Dean echoes Tish’s words.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Trust me, Cas, I’m an authority on shitty childhoods. But we’ll keep them alive, keep them safe. We’ll figure it out,” he repeats, feeling like a broken record.

Cas looks at him then, at least Dean thinks he’s looking at him because he refuses to return the look. He can’t really take Cas’s intense stares lately, as familiar and homey as they are.

“How was work?” he asks after a beat.

“Pointless. Tedious. They say they’re building permanent dwellings, but they have everyone pick up sticks that could never be used for any kind of housing. Except maybe a Teepee and that’s basically what they have now.”

“Huh,” Cas says. “You think it’s just a way of keeping everyone busy?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Dean says, shaking his head. An ache is starting to set in against his temple.

“You in this tent too?” He asks instead pursuing the subject, pulling up a few blades of grass.

“No,” Cas answers, “Tent 4B. This is 4A.”

Dean clears his throat. “Better get to sleep then. Full day of work tomorrow and all.”

“Yes. For both of us.”

He stands, brushing off the back of his jeans. Dean’s always struck when he does silly human things, like trying to turn and see the grass stains on the ass of his pants like any old idiot. He smirks before starting to walk toward the tent next door.

“Goodnight, Dean.” He says with his back turned.

“Night, Cas.”

He flips back the flap and re-enters the tend, bending at the waist to avoid the eyelines of the soldiers. He flattens himself back on his cot, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment.

“Hey!” he hears a familiar whisper.

His eyes fly open, and Christian is lying on his side in the cot next to him, eyes wide and shining.

“You’re planning an escape?”

“Easy, man– “

“I heard you talking outside.”

“Jesus Christ– “

“I’m just saying,” he says, face hard but eyes full of fear, “I want in. I can help.”

Dean swallows, feeling nerves for the first time since entering the camp. “Go to sleep, kid, we’ll talk again.”

A beat passes, but then Christian turns over and falls still. Dean turns onto his back, stomach in knots until he falls asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Where we went wrong" by the Hush Sound. Thanks for reading!


	3. Blame it on Me

_He flails out, but these hands are different from the others; like iron fetters on his wrists, pinning him to the ground. Two knees flank his ribs, pressing him to the ground. He lashes out with nails and teeth he knows would hurt anything human, but this is no human. Why would a human bind his hands in such a gentle way? And how could a human put a tentative hand on his face, helping him fall asleep at last?_

* * *

 

 

When they’re divvied up the next day, Christian and him get assigned to same group.

They’re on rock duty, and Dean can see why the kid thought he was lucky for picking up sticks yesterday, even if they were annoying when they poked you in the eye. They were instructed to pick up stones no wider than 6 inches and no thicker than 3. When Dean asks about the strange requirements, a soldier replies that the stones were for the foundations for the permanent housing. Dean holds back his retort, keeping his eye out for Tish, but she’s no where in sight so she must have been assigned sticks again.

Christian moves like a jumpy rabbit, jerking everytime someone comes to collect next to them, even at another kid who looks less than twelve.

“You’re fidgeting like a whore in church,” he says after an hour of watching the show.

Christian shakes his head, keeping and down and trained on the ground looking for stones. “We’ve got to be careful out here.”

“Just say it, kid. No soldiers in sight.”

“Keep your voice down,” Christian whispers harshly, whipping his head around to check for eavesdroppers again.

“You’re making a scene with all your fidgeting and whispering,” Dean says, examining a rock as if it was the most captivating thing he had ever seen. “Just keep working and talk like nothing’s wrong.”

Christian stares at him for a minute, stooping down to sift through a pile of leaves. “I don’t want anyone to hear.”

“Understandable. People are awful in addition to nosy, in general.”

“Not helping, man,” Christian says, shaking his head, but Dean swears he catches a nebulous smirk of some kind.

“Come on, I’m not that scary.”

Christian sighs, giving the surroundings one last once over. Dean admits that in another life it would have been a beautiful spot, out here in the woods. The sunlight filters through the trees just right, and with a beer and a fish rod in his hands, he could have been happy here. Keywords: _in another life._

“There’s another camp. I’ve heard about it."

Dean furrows his brow, turning away and stooping down himself, a pit forming in his gut.

He tries to deflect. “There’s gotta be a few of these National Guard stations set up, sure–”

Christian shakes his head. “It’s not with the guard. I hear talk that there’s a camp out west. Not government run.”

Dean shrugs. “How different could it be? Been to one post-apocalyptic camp, been to them all.”

“Listen,” Christian says, hushing his voice enough to make Dean have to lean in, “I hear they’ve got a way to cure people who've been cursed, and to keep people safe. Isn’t something like that worth a shot?”

Dean runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling the film of months on the road, of fear and worry and mourning. It’s gross, but it’s not enough to make him hopeful.

“Ok kid. Trouble is, we need to focus on what’s going on under our noses, right _here._ ”

Christian straightens up, the wild look leaving his eye for the time being. “There’s something not right here.”

“Ya think?”

“I mean _really_ not right,” He cuts him off, “People don’t talk, they’re scared out of their minds–”

“Shh,” Dean says, holding a finger to his lips. He looks around, checking the area for soldiers. A woman is stopped picking up rocks about twenty feet from them, but otherwise the area is clear.

Dean sighs, shoving a hand in his pocket and running a hand over the scrap of paper there with the adress scrawled on it. He hates himself for it, but he’s curious.

“Listen. Tell me more about this other camp.”

“I don’t know much. It’s out west. That’s all I know.”

Dean makes a noise of frustration, walking away and shoving a few rocks violently into his sling. “West where? Midwest? Southwest? California?”

Christian runs to keep up. “I don’t know.”

“What, did your informant have a flair for dramatic?”

“No, my informant was my father. And he got taken down by a Werewolf before he could say another word about it.”

Dean stops, feet scuffing against the leaf covered ground. He lets his eyes fall closed, mentally kicking himself.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s ok, I know it’s not much to go on.” He scuffs the grounds too, kicking up a few wet leaves. “Would you believe me if I told you I knew where your van was?”

Dean turns around, grinning. “Now that is some useful info, Chris.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once Chris points it out to him, Dean doesn’t know how he missed it before. On the other side of the camp, opposite of where they enter the forest for work, sits a pretty little thicket of trees that separates the camp from another open area. They have free time in between work and dinner, and Chris leads him to the tree-lined border there, If you squint, you can make out a field of abandoned vehicles and tanks, rusting in the open air due to the lack of gasoline.

The van sits at the edge of the field, and Dean knows for sure that it has an almost full tank full of vegetable oil to run on.

“Good work, kid,” Dean says, patting him on the shoulder as they make their way back into camp.

“It’s where the road leads. That’s why they bring new people in on foot.”

“They don’t want them to know how to get out.”

“Exactly.”

Dean spots the Medical Tent on their way back, only designated from the others by the large, red cross on the front. People mill around the front flap, resembling a hospital weighting room with their hands fidgeting and worried eyes.

“You did good, Chris. I’m gonna go let my friend know what’s going on. Head back, ok?”

Chris nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and shlumping back to 4A. Dean watches him for a minute, feeling nostalgic in the way you can only be nostalgic for your twenties. A few things changed here and there, everything could have been different.

He shakes himself out of it and walks toward the Med Tent, ignoring the stares he gets as he walks by; the New Guy thing’s gotta wear off soon, right?

The first thing he encounters upon pulling the door-flap back is the smell. Rotting flesh, with a tinge of diarrhea and the rust of blood. People are laid out on cots similar to the ones in his tent, some cradling amputated limbs with bloodied bandages and others looking less directly affected, but Dean can see fever in their eyes and their sweat-soaked hair.

A few people seem to know what they’re doing, and nurses run around like cocktail waitresses during happy hour, replacing bandages and splints and not paying him any real mind. He walks through the path created in the gaps between cots, spotting Cas on the other side of the room, talking to a woman who, by the looks of her under-eye circles, looks like she hasn’t slept in years.

Cas catches his eye, nodding in recognition.before turning back to the woman to finish their discussion. Dean hangs back for moment; the woman is frazzled, gesturing wildly and looking close to tears. Cas nods calmly, talking softly. Whatever he says seems to calm her, but she walks away with a tense face, brushing past Dean.

Cas starts to walk over to him after she leaves, checking foreheads and wounds on the way. Dean looks down at his hands, covered in dirt and small cuts from picking up rocks all day, and wipes them quickly on his pants.

“Careful,” Cas says when he reaches him, “They catch you standing around here they’ll slap a bone saw in your hand.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, “You didn’t make it sound this bad.”

“Well, luckily they have a hearty supply of painkillers, at least. Apparently the nurses have had trouble keeping the soldiers out of the Oxy, though.” He scratches at his arm, rolling up his sleeves.

“You haven’t taken anything, right?” Dean asks, the urgency he feels nearly making his voice crack.

Cas furrows his brow, obviously confused. “No. Why would I?”

“Just asking,” he says quickly, warmth flooding his face. He quickly changes the subject. “Figured out where they’re keeping the van. Kid from my tent showed me.”

“Good.” He bends down, adjusting a bandage on a sleeping girl’s head. “Tish was here earlier. She said she was looking for you.”

“When was this?”

“Just a few minutes before you got here. She told me–” he lowers his voice, “She figured out where the food storage is. For when we leave.”

Dean nods, impressed overall with the youth he’s encountered. “Where?”

“It’s–” Cas starts to say, before the same nurse from comes up behind him, looking like a woman possessed.

“Doctor– you have to do something now– he–”

“I’m coming,” Cas says, turning away and following her bobbing blonde head through the aisle. Dean follows, not liking the state of things.

She leads them to a cot where a middle-age man is reclined back, thrashing and moaning but obviously somewhat unconscious. He cries out when Cas feels for his pulse, and when Dean gets closer his stomach drops down to his shoes: his eyes are dripping tears of blood, and his mouth is twisted into an ugly snarl.

“Oh no,” Cas says, freezing in place.

Dean swallows hard, wishing he had his gun, a knife, anything. The man has silver-gray hair, and he notes the ring on his finger. He wonders how long he’s been like this, a ticking time bomb.

“Cecilia, how long has he been here?” Cas asks calmly, on the same track.

Cecilia runs a hand through her hair, looking close to tears and crossing herself frantically.

“He’s one of them, right? Dear God–”

“Cecilia.” He takes her by the shoulders, shaking slightly, “I need you to focus. When did he come in?”

“This morning! He said he thought he sprained his ankle during the tremor yesterday– one of the soldiers brought him in, I told him to lie down while I got the stuff to fix it together but there were so many patients and I forgot about him here until he started this up.”

Dean catches the eyes of some of the others around him; an older woman with tightly curled hair and a young girl clutching a stuffed bear on a cot next to her. They look at the thrashing man with recognition. They’ve seen this before.

He’s out the door and back into the late-day sun, Cas’s call of “Dean! Come back!” echoing behind him. He ignores it, heading for the first soldier he sees in army green.

It just so happens to be the woman from yesterday, bandana still tied around her head.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asks, looking him up and down as he catches his breath.

“Someone’s Cursed. You must have seen it before.”

She snaps to full height, reaching behind her and touching what Dean knows must be a handgun– hidden.

“Where?”

Dean leads her back to the tent, and he hears screaming now, guttural and animalistic. Patients who can walk line the walls of the tent, clearly backing away from where the infected man lies.

Cas appears, blocking their way while eyeing the soldier’s gun.

“This is a medical tent. You need to leave–”

The soldier’s face is deadly serious. “Step aside, doc.”

“This isn’t necessary– there’s things I can try, he’s still in the beginning phase–” he pleads, shooting angry looks at Dean.

Her face falls for moment, looking extremely tired. “I’m sorry. But we can’t have him here”

“He’s over here,” Dean says, leading her through the throngs of people to the cot where the man lays thrashing, screaming while blood leaks from his mouth.

The soldier’s mouth purses, a hard line forming in her forehead. She takes the gun from her back holster slowly, calling out, “Everybody close your eyes and cover your ears!”

Dean turns away while everyone ducks and squeezes their eyes shut. He puts his hands over his ears, but keeps his eyes open, meeting eyes with Cas who stands with his hands by his side, defeated.

The gun shot rings out loud and jarring, silencing any noise in the tent.

“Ok. Somebody hand me a fucking sheet.”

Nurses rush forward, wrapping the body and making quick work of cleaning up. A mixture of sobs and screams ring through the tent as more soldiers rush in to restore order. Somewhere in the mess, Dean sees Cas slip out the side with a flick of his jacket.

Dean chases after him, pushing through sobbing people and soldiers who are entirely too comfortable pointing guns at civilians until he’s outside.

“Cas!” He calls, but he only gets the back of his head, and hands clenched in fists by his side. “Cas there was nothing you could do–”

“FUCK you Dean!” He turns around suddenly, pushing him hard at the shoulders.

He stumbles back, his bad arm stinging.

“I could have fixed him!” Cas yells, a sob caught in his throat.

“He was gone, Cas! Dead! You know it more than I do.”

“Bullshit!”

“Cas,” he says, not liking the hard look on Cas’s face, not liking how it looks on the only person he has left in the world, “It’s over. We lost.”

Cas gets in his face, eyes dark. “I will not let you tell me what is and isn’t possible, Dean.”

“You want this place to become like the Walking Dead? Did you want to try get out of here when everyone’s been infected?”

Cas swallows, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Leave me alone.”

“Cas– “

“I said leave me alone.”

He walks away, back towards the chaos of the Medical Tent. It’s starting to catch the eye of the other campers, soldiers forming a barricade to keep others from investigating, some screaming for loved ones that are inside. They let Cas through when they see him.

Dean runs a hand over his face, tamping down _whatever that was_ into the deep hole of emotional repression where he stores everything else. He turns around, keeping his eyes peeled for Tish; the other work groups should be getting back by now.

“Back to your tents!” Soldiers call out, corralling frightened people and steering them away from the medical tent.

He scans the crowd, looking for her head full of braids, and spots her near the tent where they keep the young kids. When he gets closer, he sees that she’s clutching onto June’s hand.

“You blow something up?” She asks when he reaches her, jerking her chin towards the chaos.

“No,” he says, not in the mood for joking, “I need you to show me where the supply tent is.”

She looks around, people screaming and rushing around them. June swings their joined hands back and forth, oblivious to the pandemonium.

“Now?”

“Yes now,” he says, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, “While the soldiers are distracted. We’re gonna be ditching this place sooner rather than later.”

She nods, picking June up and sitting her on her hip. Dean notes that she’s too small for a six year old, but what can be done at the End of the World?

He follows her through the throngs, keeping their pace quick since the crowds were already thinning out. They pass the sleeping tents and the soldier’s barracks, coming to a smaller, unlabeled tent at the edge of the campsight. It’s unguarded, surprisingly, and Dean wonders if it’s always that way.

They duck through the door flap and Dean makes note of the boxes upon boxes of MREs and generic canned goods. He tries to remember where the field where the van sits is in relation, and if he’s correct it should be pretty close– enough to run out a few boxes before they scoot out of here–

Something catches his eye, a bright red packaging he hasn’t seen since the last stop him and Sam made before he hightailed it to go make Death a platter of nachos. He goes closer, making sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

Kit Kats. Unmistakeable in their orange and brown wrapping, there has to be hundreds of them. Along with them is every godforsaken type of candy he hasn’t seen the stores were looted down to their studs. His eyes widen at the thought of chocolate, sweet and melting on his tongue, before feeling apprehension start to gnaw at his stomach.

“Hey Tish,” he calls, watching as she turns and sees the forbidden fruit, her and June’s eyes widening in the same way he’s sure his did. “How do you reckon they got all this?”

She adjusts June on her hip. “Must’ve ransacked a grocery store.”

“It’s possible. But these look like bulk-sized, the kind you get right from the factory.” He picks one up, making sure it’s sealed well before ripping it open and handing a stick of it to June, her hands outstretched.

He holds the other half out to Tish, who ignores him.

“Every city is cursed–”

“Exaclty.”

“So how could they–”

“No idea.”

In addition to candy, there’s boxes of colorful cereal and snack cakes, all still in large pallet packaging with the shrink wrap still attached. He tries to push the thought of it to the back of his mind. There are more important things.

“Grab a box of MREs. We’re going to the van.”

It turns out that even June can carry one of the small boxes of protein bars, little kid feet carefully stepping over roots and brambles sticking out of the ground. She stumbles a few times, but Tish is always there to haul her back up and dust her off before Dean can get to her. Setbacks aside, Tish and Dean manage to haul two boxes each, hopefully replenishing whatever was probably stolen from the truck.

They emerge into the field some twenty minutes later, and without the cover of trees did can see that it’s mostly a graveyard. Rusted tanks and army vehicles that need gasoline that’s long since spilled and dried up from the second string of earthquakes.

The van sticks out against all the olive green, covered in pine needles and helicopter leaves. They set their boxes on the ground, trying all the doors. Dean’s fingers itch for his lock picking kit before he remembers how the back trunk door had a habit of flying open while him and Cas were taking on any kind of speed on the highway.

“Tish– try the trunk.”

She manages to jimmy it open with just a few shakes, crawling over the seats to unlock the driver’s side door. Dean loads the boxes in behind her.

“There,” he says, wiping dust off his hands and on to his pants, “Still doesn’t solve the problem of how we’re gonna drive it. I can hotwire it, but that’s not a longterm solution.”

“That one soldier,” Tish starts, scowling, “Ballister, I think his name was. He’s got keys a mile long hanging from his belt. Only sometimes though.”

Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “Leave Meatface to me. You just concentrate on keeping June close to you as much as possible, so that we’re ready to hightail it at any time.”

They walk back, Dean making a mental note to go slower and stealthily since the noise from camp seems to have died down. The sun is low in the sky, and Dean sees the line forming outside of the Mess Tent. They seem to only use it for dinner time, and he hadn’t gone yesterday, preferring to eat the protein bar he had stolen from the lunch rations while lying on his cot.

“Winchester!”

Dean sighs, annoyance shooting through him. He looks behind them, seeing Ballister stalking toward them, keys jingling at his hip.

“Go ahead,” he whispers to Tish, who hurries away, tugging June by the hand.

He turns around, trying to keep his expression neutral.

Ballister is just as ugly as he was the day before, but Dean twists his face into something like a sincere smile. “Something I can do for you, Sergeant?”

“Where’d you just come from?” he asks.

Dean looks him up and down. “Do you always carry your weapon as if you’re about to shoot a civilian, or is that just for me?”

Ballister’s eyes darken. “Answer the question, or you get to stay out extra long tomorrow. And I hear it’s gonna be hot.”

Dean resists rolling his eyes; he doesn’t need the trouble.

“I was coming from the kids tent. Checking on Tish and June.”

“Oh right.” He sneers. “Your _brother’s_ kids.”

“There you go again with that casual racism– you’d think the end of the world would have taken some of that red off your neck.”

Dean keeps a sharp eye on Ballister’s trigger finger. His grip tightens.

“Just be sure you’re up bright and early tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

He walks away, slinging his machine gun over his back and scowling at a few other campers heading towards the mess tent.

 _Wouldn’t want you to miss anything_.

Dean shivers despite the mild weather. He heads toward the Mess Tent, intent on distracting himself from whatever dread he was feeling.

When he enters the tent he sees the section where kids without parents sit, June and Tish already sitting and eating. Dean heads for the line, stomach grumbling but without much of an appetite. He sees a familiar brown-haired head further up in the line, surprised since there was still chaos happening

Dean gets his ration of sloppy looking canned green beans and something that looks like chicken and rice soup– mostly rice and gray looking broth. By the time he gets his food, Cas is already sitting down at a fold-out table with a few other people Dean recognizes from his tent. He smiles, feeling like his face is being stretched to the limit, and sits down across from Cas.

“Get a load of this,” he says, plopping down on the bench, “It’s like High School, only less dangerous.”

Cas looks up at him, expression still murderous. “I highly doubt that.”

“ _You_ don’t get it then. What do you guys think?” He leans over and stares at the rest of the table, “The End of the World or High School? Which would you pick?”

That gets him a laugh, even from the usually stiff campmates, and when he glances back at Cas his faces is a little softer, at least. The rest of the table turns back to their own conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says with a low voice, feeling how worthless the words are before they even leave his mouth.

Cas sighs, stirring his food around. Cas never eats a lot, and Dean had noticed that he was thinner and wiry lately, even when they were on the road. Sometimes his gums would start to bleed from scurvy, simply because he would forget that his body required nutrients.

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” he says after a moment, “It was foolish. You only did what anyone would have done.”

Dean shakes head, running a hand over his face. “I wish it was better. I mean, I know you managed with me, but that was– it seems like that was more like a–” he breaks off, watching for Cas’s reaction.

“A one time thing?” he finishes for him.

Dean nods, his arm aching like a phantom pain.

They sit and eat, Dean listening to the chatter around them. The usual sounds of a cafeteria, shouting, laughing, posturing, are absent, replaced with low and nervous conversation that seems to center around nothing.

“Good crop of rock gathered today–”

“...warm for this time of year, wouldn’t you say?”

“I hope they serve the fajitas tomorrow instead of–”

Rather than settling him down, the lack of talk about the day’s events starts to weigh on him. A cursed man was discovered in the medical tent, and Hearing a gunshot ring out from inside the camp should have riled everyone up. People should be suspicious, loud, clamoring for answers. Not make small talk with nervous, darting eyes.

“Listen,” Dean says, lowering his voice, “I think we should think about leaving in a few days.”

“Not that I don’t agree,” Cas says, “But why?”

“Because something’s rotten in the state of Denmark.” Cas narrows his eyes at the reference, but Dean continues, “I found the van. Ballister’s got the keys, but he’s also got my number. It’s just a matter of stealing those back and stocking up on supplies.”

Cas nods. “I’ve been taking what I can.” He taps his fingers on the plastic table, mouth quirked to one side. “I should have expected you to get on the wrong side of the main authority here.”

Dean shrugs, looking around and spotting Christian sitting with other people from their tent. They meet eyes, but Dean doesn’t get up.

“How’d you get away from the Med Tent?” he asks instead.

Cas swirls his food around; Dean doesn’t think he’s seen him take a bite.

“The nurses told me to go eat something,” he says distractedly, squinting at Dean. “How’s your arm? Any pain?”

Dean flexes his fingers, looking at the still-closed seam on his upper arm. “Can’t even feel it.”

“And your head?”

Dean touches the scab where the butterfly bandages had long since fallen off. Truth be told, he hadn’t even thought about that one.

“Eh. We have bigger problems now.”

Cas stares at him, making him feel itchy under his filthy collar. “So you say.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next day dawns hotter than the last, with humidity that is sure to dampen any spirit. Dean wakes up with a thicker layer of sweat than he had gone to bed with, and his clothes had officially entered the “waxy” stage. He reaches for the pants Chris gave him still miraculously underneath his cot and changes underneath his blanket.

Chris has an arm slung over his eyes, oblivious to the flurry of activity of everyone getting up and moving to start the day. Dean figures he’ll let him sleep until the soldiers make their second rounds. He passes a few people splashing small amounts of water onto their face, moving the tent flap aside and walk into hazy sunshine.

Dean feels the difference in the air while they’re eating their usual breakfast of protein bars and dubious looking bottled water. The hushed tone is nothing new, but there’s a flutter of nervousness in the way some of the campers move; the way they barely touch their food and fidget in their seats on the grass. Some eyes follow every move he makes, but some groups seem to be watching everyone, sizing them up. Still, some people stretch, yawning and eating their breakfast as if nothing is wrong, and they stand out like sore thumbs.

Chris joins him after a while, looking like he hadn’t slept at all.

“Haven’t you ever heard of beauty sleep, kid?” he asks, goosebumps forming on his arm from the way his voice sticks out in the silent camp.

“I guess not,” he says, ripping the wrapper off of his protein bar. He looks around, brow furrowed. “You feel it?”

“Oh yeah.”

They don’t have to wait long to have their suspicions confirmed.

Dean notices first that the soldiers are still lining the edges of camp, not moving to hand out slings and separate people for the work day. Then a calloused hand lands on his arm.

A soldier with a machine gun at the ready has him by the arm before he can blink.

“Let’s go,” he says with a grimace before he turns away from Dean.

“What the fuck–”

Other people are being picked out of the crowd, by their own personal soldiers . Dean spots the woman who had been loud in the Mess Tent the day before, a kid who looked no older than twenty–

The rest of the campers part themselves without a word, most averting their eyes, as the soldiers march them to the Southern edge of camp. Dean’s soldier moves so that his machine gun is almost pressing into his back, and he can see the large pile of sticks looming in the distance.

Someone screams– a little girl by sounds of it– and Dean turns just enough to see Tish getting pulled out of the crowd by a soldier, ripping June from her arms. The little girl screams and lashes in the arms of the woman she’s entrusted to.

Dean turns to his soldier, anger pulsing through him. “Whatever’s going on here, she’s just a kid–”

That earns him another prod in the back, nudging him forward and shutting him up. Dean clenches his fists at his sides and looks around at the crowd. Soldiers still line the edges and Tish is too far away to grab her and run. He scans the crowd for a messy, brown-haired head, but Cas is no where to be found.

His soldier is young, probably as green as someone can be at the end of the world. He could whip around, steal the gun– but where does that leave him? More guns trained on him and he’s not feeling as self-sacrificing as he used to be, strangely enough.

They get clear of the crowd, almost at the edge, when the screaming starts.

Some of it are screams of fear from the people with guns trained on their backs, but mostly it comes from the forest. It’s animalistic and otherworldly, a sound Dean had only heard in Purgatory.

Vampires. And a lot of them, by the sound of it.

They emerge from the trees, wild-looking and unkempt, clothing ripped and dirty from different points in time, ranging from the Victorian era to modern day. The soldiers tighten their grips on their weapons, but otherwise keep them trained on the campers corralled in front of them.

More interesting than the vampires is what some of them carry. Colorfully labeled boxes, some just in their hands and some shrinked wrapped and shared between them, their strength equaling that of a forklift. Dean’s seen them before, in the supply tent.

Dean’s seen what a trade looks like, and this is looking worse by the second.

Ballister emerges from the center of the crowd. Dean notes that it’s the first time he’s looked nervous, his gun neutrally slung over his back and his gait lacking its usual cockiness.

“Morning!” he calls out to the Vampires, “Beautiful day, right?”

These Vampires look fresh from Purgatory, not the kind that are interested in small talk with their food; and with every second that goes by, Dean’s feeling more and more like a cow on its way to slaughter.

“Is this all?” One in the front asks, sporting a suit coat that makes him look like an old-timey inventor that got lost in the jungle.

“Well–”

They go back and forth, and Dean starts counting. He counts thirty vampires from what he can see and forty-two soldiers, twenty of which have their guns trained on the group of people separated from the rest of camp. His only advantage now is that he’s not personally at gunpoint. He inches his way to the left, trying to keep his movements small.

He sidles up next to Tish, gripping her arm and pulling her into the middle of the group. Luckily, she catches on, fear darkening her eyes but moving smoothly nonetheless.

“Still gonna get us out of here?” she whispers.

“You bet. Just gimme a minute.”

“Looks like we’re dinner if you don’t.”

“A little faith would be nice.”

Tish scoffs, and Dean concentrates back on what’s being said.

“Deal’s a deal,” Ballister says, “We feed you, you feed us.”

That sets the group off, and people cling to each other and scream, some trying to break through the ranks and getting shoved back roughly by soldiers.

Dean grabs Tish’s hand, saying, “Don’t let go, ok? No matter what. I’m getting you out of here.”

She nods. “And my sister?”

“Her too.”

They start moving, the soldiers marching them towards the forest. It becomes eerily quiet, people’s screams turning into hushed sobbing. Dean looks for holes, anywhere they could slip out and run under the radar, getting back to the heart of the camp and snagging June and Cas and heading back to the road at least–

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Dean’s first emotion is pride; getting Cas to start comfortably working ‘fuck’ into daily vocabulary had been one of his greatest achievements. Cas stands outside the Medical Tent, hands hanging by his side. Dean can’t help but think that they could have used a bone-saw or two right about now.

“You’re selling your own people?” He calls out, locking eyes with Dean before looking at Ballister.

Ballistair fidgets on the stop. “Get back in the tent, Doc, this isn’t your business–”

Dean turns to Tish, whispering, “You’ll know when the times right. Run and find your sister, and head for the road. We’ll meet you there.”

“But what about– “

“You’ve got to trust me.”

Tish doesn’t look convinced, but he can only give her a half-hearted smile before letting go of her hand (breaking his first promise of the day) and shoving his way towards the front of the group, intent on making as much noise as possible.

“Hey!” he calls out, “Meatface! Why don’t you explain to everyone what’s going on here? Why you’re selling us out to a bunch of Vamps, maybe?"

Ballister turns his way from arguing with Cas, taking his gun off of Cas, and that almost makes Dean sigh with relief if he hadn’t been so keyed up.

“Winchester,” he says, spitting his name like a curse, “Yeah, you go first.” He surges forward, reaching through the ring of soldiers to grab Dean by the arm.

He flicks his eyes over his shoulder just in time to see a brown, braided head bobbing away from the throng, the soldiers distracted enough to let her pass. She clears the circle, and then Dean is yanked forward from his bad arm, crying out.

“Dean!” Cas calls.

He gets a good hit to his face before he can get his bearings, falling to the ground and landing in the wet leaves. He curls his fists, getting the muck caught under his fingernails. His whole body starts to heat; he’s still got the anger, but none of the power. In the part of his brain that’s still twisted and subhuman, he wishes he had the Mark back.

Ballister pushes him down, flipping him over with a boot. Before Dean can react there’s a barrel in his face, smelling of old gunpowder.

“Go ahead,” Dean says, leaning into the barrel (So much for being done with the self-sacrificing bit), “You can hand people off to the Vampires but I bet you can’t shoot me point-blank.”

Ballister’s hand shakes on the trigger, giving Dean way more anxiety than any distraction should give him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees two soldiers holding Cas back, his face straining but Dean guesses that he knows what’s going on. The vampires advance forward, obviously imatient, moving smoothly through the roughness of the landscape.

Dean feels the tremors first, only because he’s felt it so many times before. That’s the most terrifying part of the Darkness, how quiet it is. At that moment, however, it’s just what he needs.

He knocks Ballister’s gun out of the way, jumping up and landing a blow to his abdomen. The vampires start to scream, the tremors growing more violent as the soldiers scatter to secure the camp, some running into forest that Dean can see.

As soon as he realizes there are no guns trained on him, Dean runs for Cas, grabbing him by the jacket and pulling him towards the forest as the Earth shakes beneath them.

“That was stupid,” Cas yells as they run.

Something in the distance lets out a deep and rumbling roar and Dean can feel it right down to the shudder of his heartbeat. People scream around them, clinging to some and pushing others down into the dirt. Black clouds start to seep into the camp clearing, curling around trees and sinking to the ground to create a cover like lava.

Dean sees Christian towards the edge in a group nearest the forest edge, fighting his way through writhing bodies to escape the smog.

Dean’s stomach drops, grabbing the back of Cas’s jacket and pulling him around.

“That kid, he helped me–”

“Dean we need to go.” Cas grips right back on his sleeve, eyes wild.

“We can just leave him.”

Cas growls in frustration, scanning the crowd quickly. “Where is he?”

Dean picks out his head again, blond and bobbing among the crowd. “If we could just get him to the middle.”

Another roar sounds in the distance, closer now like an approaching storm. Fog surges through the trees faster now, overtaking the mass of people in front of them until they were barely visible. Dean loses sight of Christian, his heart jumping into his throat.

He’s barely aware of Cas taking hold of him, pulling him along at a run until his own gait stabilizes underneath him. The Darkness is closer in now; there’s barely an opening in the forest to escape.

Dean tries to keep his eyes forward, heading towards the road. He lets go of Cas’s jacket, barely realizing that he was still clutching onto it, letting him run ahead and duck into the Medical Tent. He comes out a moment later, shoving something into his bag that he slings over his shoulder.

Wordlessly, they pick up their run again, instinctively throwing their arms in front of their mouths, even if it won’t matter. They duck into the trees, sticks and low-hanging branches catching on their running feet. Dean can just see where the trees thin out into the road

“Stop!”

Dean stops, almost tripping over a root, when he hears the distinct sound of a machine gun clip lock into place. He hears Ballister’s ragged panting behind him, as the tremors subside for a moment.

“Hands up.”

He looks sideways at Cas, almost snorting at the look of pure annoyance on his face. They raise their hands, turning around slowly.

Ballister looks rough. The right side of his face is slashed up from branches, and the left is crusted in dust from the quakes.

“Listen,” Dean says, “It’s two against one– three if you count the Darkness.”

“I’ve got a gun,” he snarls.

“By now, if you think we can’t get that gun from you, you’re stupider than you look.”

A moment passes, punctuated only by their breathing and creaking of the trees. Dean knows the tremors will start up again any moment, accompanied by the monster itself.

“You’re not going to shoot us,” Cas says, in that way that shows that he used to write the laws of the universe.

Ballister doesn’t let up, adjusting his grip on the gun. Dean tenses, ready to move, when he hears whistling. It echoes off the trees, naturally amplified. Ballistair looks around, confusing written all over his ugly face.

It’s an old tune, and Dean’s sure he’s heard it before.

And then, with a sickening crunch, a flying ax hits Ballister square in the knee, blood gushing immediately to stain his camouflage pants. He yells out, gun spraying a round of bullets into the ground. Dean moves to turn on his heel and book it when a hand lands on his shoulder from behind, along with a familiar voice.

“S’good to see you, brother.”

There isn’t time for a proper hello, Dean turning around to see Benny, wearing the same suspenders and shit-eating grin he had last seen him in, and another woman that looks very familiar. She strides over to Ballistair, her face hard and cold, and yanks the ax out of his knee. He lets out a howl and a scream, and she stares at the blood gushing from the open wound for a moment.

The Darkness roars again in the distance, and the ground starts to tremble in earnest. She looks up at them, shaken from her trance.

“Let’s go,” she says, her voice low and song-like. Dean’s eyes widen in shock.

“You remember Lenore, right?” Benny asks, grabbing his arm and dragging him into a run. “She tells me we have your acquaintance in common.”

Dean doesn’t look back, feeling his ears burn even in the chaos of the coming storm. Cas is right beside him, worry etched into his features as the screams begin from whatever is left of the camp, guttural and inhuman.

They pick up their pace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Lacrymosa" by Evanescence


	4. I will hold a mirror up

_When he wakes, his arm stings. It's a phantom pain, like a lost limb, but it grounds him. Keeps him tied to the Earth._

  _Something shifts around him, never quite taking shape but never disappearing either. He's conscious of a few events at random times; foam dripping from the corners of his mouth and the pull of ropes that bind him to a chair. A pair of hands fuss over him sometimes, backing away for reasons he can't see._

  

* * *

“Tish! June!”

By the time they make it to the road, it’s almost dusk and the Earthquakes have stopped. Dean counts them lucky; the last round of quakes had split the ground and heaved the van on its side, leaving them stranded for almost a week while Dean fixed it. This time, there’s only fallen trees to show for it. 

“Dean,” Cas says, catching up behind him, “They’re gone.”

“Can’t be,” Dean stutters, looking around wildly as if two braided heads were going to pop up out of the brush, “I told them to head for the road.”

“We’ll find them,” Cas says, still looking around frantically. 

Dean turns on Cas, anger boiling in his stomach. “If I hadn’t listened to you, that fucking kid would still be alive.”

Cas sags a bit, but he’s adjusted to Dean’s outbursts, to his anger turning on like the flip of a switch. “You would have fought the entirety of The Darkness? Just to pretend like you could have saved that kid?”

“You fucking–” Dean stammers, breathless. He leans down bracing himself with his hands on his knees. “I fucking _hate_ it when you try to act all cold and calculating like you know the secrets of the universe.”

“I’m trying to keep us alive Dean, and if you weren’t so ready to sacrifice yourself all the time I might have an easier–”

“You keep yelling like that, you’re gonna have more to worry about than two deadbeat vamps.”

Benny and Lenore emerge from the forest behind them, their footing in the earthquakes sure enough to scout the forest for any survivors. Not that they would know what to do with more mouths to feed. 

“We gotta lay low,” Benny continues, “By dark this road’s gonna be crawling with Cursed.”

“Benny, they were just kids,” Dean says, catching up to Benny as he starts walking, “We can’t just abandon them–”

“We keep to the road,” Lenore says, the first words out of her mouth since Benny reintroduced her. Her eyes are hard and unreadable. “If they got out they would have headed that way. There’s shelter about three miles north. They might have gone there.”

They start down the road, the world eerily quiet. Cas walks beside him, clutching onto the shoulder strap of his bag. They could hold the tension for a while, but it would snap soon. You can’t stay angry at the only person you have in the world for very long, truth be told. 

Dean imagines what the camp must look like now, covered in a blanket of death. He had seen it before, towns where it appeared that the entire population had just fallen asleep. People at the wheel, some looking as though they had been tending to a garden, just down and out. And when they wake, it’s as if hell had risen to Earth. 

He thinks of Christian’s lanky, late-teenage form, trying to put the inevitable thought out of his mind. 

He slaps a fly from his arm, another minor tremor rocking the ground. They brace for a moment before continuing, and he looks at Benny and Lenore leading the way. 

He would be lying if he said that he _hadn’t_ thought about it. The possibility of meeting up with Benny had always been a shadow in the back of his mind, but it had been a stupid thing to hope for, especially since there was no way to know if _all_ monsters had been expelled from Purgatory, or only the asshole types.

If someone had told him he would have managed to locate _two_ vampires whose deaths are on his head, well, he would have felt their forehead and told them that the sun was starting to get to them. 

After about a half a mile, Benny starts to whistle. 

“Got any weapons, Dean?” He asks, glancing back at them. 

“No. They even got the knife in my boot.”

“Psh.” Benny fishes something out of his back pocket, throwing him a small hunting knife still in a sheath. Dean pockets it with a “Thanks.”

“No problem. I like to keep a few on me. Probably nothing like the arsenal you must have had.”

Dean laughs. “Wasn’t as good as it used to be, I gotta tell you.”

They walk on, climbing over roads heaved up from past earthquakes. Wildflowers grow in the cracks, and the canopy of trees hang over the road, shading them from the late day sunlight. 

"So Lenore," Dean chances after a while, "How's it been? Being topside I mean."

She doesn't turn around, hand tightening on the machete latched to her belt. 

"In purgatory I didn't have eyes in my head because of the way I died. So you can imagine how I feel having them back."

Cas tenses at his side. "I apologize for that."

Lenore turns around, her dark eyes fixated on Cas. "That makes me feel much better."

Cas looks visibly upset in that kicked puppy way he’s so good at, but doesn’t respond. Nobody carries guilt like Cas. 

"Anyway," she continues, "I met up with Benny a few months back, I had been looking for someone who shares my..."

"Empathy?" Benny finishes. 

"I suppose."

"We hid out in that nest of vamps for a while," Benny says, "Safer to be among monsters these days. When we saw what they were gonna do though, well we weren't gonna let that stand. They had to be rooted out."

"Are you saying that you called the Darkness?" Cas asks, disbelief coloring his tone. 

Benny laughs, a loud guffaw Dean had never heard in the constant danger of purgatory. "Yeah, right, like that thing could be controlled."

"It's a pattern," Lenore says, "The Darkness never strikes the same place twice. It moves like a hurricane, covering as much surface area as possible. That's how it's managed to take out the whole Midwest in under a year."

"But we're in New York," Cas says, and a pit forms in Dean's stomach. 

"Exactly. It's making it's way around," Benny says. 

Dean exhales, his feet heavy against the cracked pavement. 

"We managed to time it well enough that we knew it would be in this vicinity when the vampires came to collect from your camp. We thought–we thought there might be more time for an evacuation." Lenore says sadly. 

"An escape mission," Dean says. 

"Bingo.” Benny says sadly, “All we managed was you two though. It'll have to do."

Dean knows Benny meant it as a joke, but he doesn't have the energy to laugh and judging by the silence, neither does anyone else. 

The sun starts to disappear, and Lenore's promise of shelter turns out to be an old gas station, looking better than anything he's seen in a long time. Not that it’s ideal; most of the food and supplies are cleared from the shelves except for a few boxes of granola bars and insect repellent. They find a few old sleeping bags in the back room, obviously abandoned mid-sleep during a moment of chaos and collecting dust. 

Benny gestures to him and Cas. “You two, get some sleep, we won’t need it for a while. We’ll take first watch.”

Dean knows he should protest for politeness sake, but his mouth remains firmly shut as he lies down on top of the sleeping bag, forgoing covering himself for now and letting his eyes fall closed. It’s definitely old, but good quality; one of the expensive kinds only real outdoorsy types would spring for. 

Something light drops into his stomach from above. He cracks an eye open; it’s a granola bar that looks less than appealing. 

"Eat," Cas says, crawling into the red sleeping bag next to him, a bar of his own no where in sight. 

Dean crunches on the ancient granola bar, wishing he had some water, as Cas lies down, letting out a groan that steers Dean’s mind in another direction.

“Dean,” Cas says once they’re settled and it’s quiet. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you think they’re alright?”

Dean swallows, his voice still hoarse from calling for Tish and June earlier. He knew it had been stupid; they were lucky monsters weren’t beating down their doors right now with the way they had announced their presence.  

“I don’t know,” he answers, voice sounding thicker than he would like.

“What was the last thing you said to Tish?”

“I already told you, man,” he rubs a hand over his eyes, sighing, “I told her to run for the road.”

“June’s wound was almost healed,” Cas says, more to himself than in Dean’s direction, “As long as the glue stays intact–”

“Cas. Get some sleep.” Dean slings an arm over his eyes. “Nothing we can do on no sleep.”

He sighs. “I suppose.”

It’s a cool night thankfully, even if it is on the humid side. Dean can feel the season changing–it’ll be winter soon, and without a better shelter they aren’t going to make it. 

“Hey,” Cas says, pulling him from his thoughts. “That goes for you too.”

“Do as I say,” Dean says, laughing darkly, “Not as I do.”  


Dean’s eyes are closed, but he hears Cas turn over onto his side. His stomach clenches in that way he has learned to ignore for years and years on end. 

“Dean,” Cas says, with a hitch and Dean’s eyes snap open. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I pulled you away. I know you wanted to save that boy. I just couldn’t see you–I didn’t want you around that again.”

Cas’s eyes are shining; Dean doesn’t think they have enough collective energy to actually cry, but it makes it impossible for Dean to stop him when he slips out of his sleeping bag and crawls over to him. He doesn’t do much, he never does, just runs a hand over Dean’s arm while sitting next to him. If he wanted to he could probably make some excuse about checking his arm wound, but he doesn’t.

“Dean, can we– ?” 

And it’s the crack in Cas’s voice that does it, that pushes all his buttons about _caring for people_ and _not letting anyone down._ Dean takes him by the wrists and pulls him on top of him, taking his face in his hands and bringing their lips together fast enough that Cas sighs right into his mouth, letting his whole body press into him from his chest to their socked feet. 

Dean pulls his hands through Cas’s hair as Cas sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, pulling a whimper out of Dean that he doesn’t even recognize. Cas kisses like he doesn’t know anything else, like a kid just figuring out all the great things lips and hands can do but with an adult’s common sense. 

After a few minutes, Cas nudges his knees apart, lying between them as Dean wraps one leg around his hip, pulling him closer so that their hips meet flush. They’re both exhausted, and barely hard, but Dean can’t help but love the way Cas rocks into him, sending jolts of feeling through him as Cas licks and sucks at the skin of his neck. 

Dean feels all the things he usually feels while he’s kissing Cas; summed up accurately with whispered affirmations like _oh my god_ and _holy shit_. He supposes that he can do this for Cas once in a while if it helps him get through the day – _oh_ –yes he can. 

Cas slows after a few minutes, kissing him deeply while Dean rucks up his shirt to run his hands over his bare back. Cas answers by slipping a hand under his shirt, running calloused fingers over his nipples in that way that makes Dean gasp, slipping a hand in the back pocket of Cas’s jeans to pull him closer. 

Cas stills, burying his face in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Dean just holds him, wrapping an arm around his waist, feeling his breath against his neck. 

He laughs softly. 

“What?” Cas asks, pulling away and balancing on his forearms, a small smile on his face that makes Dean feel like he just saved the world. 

“Nothing,” he says, “Just–we stink.”

Cas hangs his head, succumbing to a small laugh Dean hasn’t heard in a while. He rolls off of him, but makes no move to go back to his sleeping bag. 

He feels fingers on his arms, pushing up the sleeve, and this time Cas really does check his wound, running his fingers over the seam. 

“Seems to be healing normally,” he mutters. 

Dean pulls down his sleeve, getting the wound out of Cas’s sight. “It was a scratch to begin with, and now it’s an almost-healed scratch. Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do,” he says, and coupled with the staring that seems to bore right into his soul, Dean has to turn away.

“We better sleep. The vamps are gonna need a break at some point.”

Cas frowns. “I guess you’re right.”

He rolls away to his own sleeping bag, and Dean instantly feels cold. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before another wave of sleep passes over him, dragging him under.  

* * *

 

 

Dean dreams of hell.

It’s not a new dream, but it’s not one he’s had in a while either. He’s strapped to the rack, the bonds of black metal red-hot and burning against his skin, leaving dark red brands on his wrists and ankles. He’s exhausted, too tired to scream, but the air lies still for a moment, and at least he’s alone. 

Sometimes he can hear the screams of the souls next to him, but even they’re quiet now, swaying in their chains but otherwise unmoving. His tongue darts out to soothe his dry and cracked lips, tasting nothing but bitter and yellow sulfur. 

He hears a something in the distance and his head perks up. It’s soft, like the faint sound of metal against metal. _Tick tick tick_ goes the rhythm, steady as a drum. 

Something changes, the world blurs and then Dean is off the rack, his burning injuries gone. He holds the knife now, dripping with dark red blood that’s thickened in the heat. He drops it–he always drops it–not making a sound when it hits the stone paved ground. The bodies in front of him writhe from wounds slashed through their faces and chests, their mouths open wide enough to distort their faces, their screams silent. 

The sound continues, rhythmic and incessant, growing louder and taking on the sound of a gong. He turns away from the faces, walking towards it with shaking steps. Blood streams through the cracks in the narrow road, seeping into his shoes. He’s exhausted, but his steps fall in rhythm with the clanging. 

Lines start to form in the distance, thick bars bisecting the red horizon and reaching to the sky. He looks west, and the bars continue on as far as he can see. The sound continues as he walks, growing louder. 

When he reaches the bars, he reaches out, finding them cold to the touch, unlike the searing hot of Dean’s hell. It fuses his hand with the bar, locking him in place. It doesn’t really bother him; where does he have to go anyway?

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a figure sitting cross legged and leaning against the bars. He watches it, its face mostly in shadow save for a pair of pale, chapped lips. A pale, white hand spidered with thick veins grasps onto the handle of a metal cup, hitting it against the bars to make that gong like noise. 

It opens its mouth.

“Do you hear that?”

Dean’s eyes snap open, quickly taking in his surroundings. He’s in a Gas Station in Upstate New York and has pain shooting up his arm that could cripple a horse. He ignores it for the time being, focusing instead on the pair of blue eyes staring him down. 

“Did you hear that?” Cas asks again, pulling a knife from his boot sitting next to him. Asshole managed to sneak a knife out of camp. 

“What?” Dean grunts, sitting up, head still spinning from the nightmare. He realizes what Cas is talking about a second later however; a tapping coming from the slim window high above their heads. 

He gets to his feet, senses sharpening from years of practice being terrified. The tapping continues, widening into the sound of rain on a metal roof. Dean deflates, lying back down and rubbing hands over his face. 

“It’s only rain, Cas.”

Cas stares out the high window as the rain streams down the glass. He lowers his knife. 

“The roads will be a mess tomorrow,” he says. 

“Yup,” Dean replies, “Almost makes me relieved that we’re not driving.”

“I hope it stops before then.”

Dean props himself back up on elbows, looking at Cas’s tall form. It’s pitch black outside, at least a few hours after they had fallen asleep, and Dean shivers as if Cas were still touching him. 

“Go back to sleep, Cas.”

“You were having a nightmare,” he says, turning around to look at him. 

Dean sighs. “That I was. Not exactly a rare occurrence.”

Cas looks at him, eyes narrowing and mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something else. The rains starts to fall heavier, pelting the window in big, fat drops. 

Instead, Cas gets back into his sleeping bag, lying back and closing his eyes. Dean does the same. He had always liked to sleep when it was raining. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "You are the moon" by The Hush Sound


End file.
